


Worship

by luvkurai



Series: Religion [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: God Complex, M/M, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Worship, a bit of bondage, also sex, and submissive Will, kind of an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvkurai/pseuds/luvkurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith is often given freely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worship

A bead of sweat trickles down Will’s forehead before soaking into an already drenched eyebrow.

He itches to wipe the liquid, as the saltiness stings at his skin, but his hands are restrained behind his back, bound at the wrists with a strip of rough fabric. A man—his psychiatrist—his ‘paddle’—his everything—watches him from the other side of the room. Will’s glasses are discarded, on the desk to his right, so the edges of Hannibal’s form are ever so slightly blurred. Will’s eyes flicker between his cheekbones, his forehead and various pieces of furniture around his office. He is very aware of his mostly-flaccid cock hanging between his bare legs as well as his naked chest. The cool air, from a distant air-conditioner, brushes against the fine hairs there.

“Come now, Will,” Hannibal prods. “There is a reason we take these steps, you and I. Would you care to tell me what is unfolding in your lovely intellect?”

Will’s eyes drop, head giving one, small twitch to the side, a mumbled “nothing” doing naught to fill the terrible silence. Hannibal disapproves, he knows it. Will wants to do as he’s told, wants to be obedient, to prove his devotion, but it is difficult.

“I do not believe that for a moment.” His voice has lost its prior relaxed air, replaced by terseness. Will tenses at the tone. “I am quite sure you have a few thoughts about your current case.”

Hannibal rises, moving at a leisurely pace to stand beside Will’s kneeling form. He lifts a hand from his side and drags it through Will’s hair and that’s all it takes—his legs buckle and he tumbles to the floor. He only barely manages to land on his knees, thanks to Hannibal’s hand remaining in his hair.

There are tears running down his face. He hunches over, a sorry attempt at shielding his limitations from Hannibal’s all-seeing eyes. Hannibal benevolently allows Will a moment to compose himself, entertains himself by running his fingers through brown locks. His fingertips brush repeatedly against the scalp before elongating the curls to stretch upwards.

Not for the first time, Will begs, “Fix me. _Please._ ”

The man laughs, deep voice sliding over every inch of Will’s body like sharp fingernails or melting wax. “That, I cannot do.”

Will seriously doubts that. In his eyes, Dr. Hannibal Lecter is a godlike figure. Will has only a cursory interest in religion, due to his meager origins in a small town in the South, where to not honor the Christian god results in indubitable social expulsion. He knows the prayers, has read the holy texts, but does not practice, less it is expected of him. One of the few ideas he retains is his sympathy with the idea of wanting to worship a superior being, in hopes of molding oneself to match.

And Hannibal Lecter is nothing if not better than Will. Constantly in control of himself and everything around him, everything about Hannibal makes him feel ripe with mediocrity. Will believes that if Hannibal desired it, he could effortlessly strip every ounce of venomous empathy from his system, leaving a normal, healthy individual behind.

But he doesn’t, doesn’t even offer up an explanation for why he chooses not to. Instead, he punishes him, which, to Will, is almost as good. It is an altered version of self-flagellation, his submission to Hannibal. There was a slow ramp up, of course, from their rudimentary acquaintanceship to the current arrangement, but the base elements were there from the first time Hannibal questioned Will’s aversion to eye contact.

Hannibal’s hand ceases its rhythmic movement.

“How are you certain of our murderer’s sexual motives?” He asks calmly, having decided Will is ready enough. Will knew this was coming, dreaded its arrival. It is an insufferable process, going over every last part of a case in excruciating detail, and one Will accepts with carefully concealed acrimony.  Regardless of how he feels about their discussions, Hannibal requires them. The question is in reference to a comment Will made to Crawford in his office, earlier that day. As he thinks, the hand in his hair migrates downwards, to rest lightly on his shoulder. Will can feel Hannibal’s eyes boring into his skull, can sense the annoyance in the man subtly rising. He stumbles over his words when he speaks. 

“I-I can see it—like it’s printed on the victims’ bodies—“ Hannibal’s hand tightens sharply, cutting him off.

“The victim’s exhibited no penetration, William. How are you so sure?”

Will’s cock, at some point, hardened to a painfully full erection. Its cause is undetermined, even Will is unsure if it is the images flitting through his mind, the killer’s explicit thoughts about and arousal at his five female victims (all stripers and/or prostitutes), or Hannibal’s fingers on him, their intensifying pressure a promise of what is to come, is undetermined.

With ragged breaths, Will pulls together as best an answer as he can manage: “The position of the body—face down, donning more clothing than when they were taken—wiped of all makeup—“

_Full lips and eyes peering up at him from beneath voluptuous eyelashes. I can do better._

“It… is almost like he’s trying to made them look as un-sexualized as possible, as if he’s…he’s trying to ward off any eroticism he ever felt towards them. Because…”

Voice trails off, he has yet to think this far through. _Toxic temptation defeated only through cleansing, through poison, no blood is spilt. I can be better._ Will gasps as he is bombarded with the strangely specific sensation of a limp body in his arms, and he is glad his hands are bound, that he can feel the material holding them, proving that it isn’t real.

Circling to Will’s front, Hannibal lowers the zipper of his trousers, bringing his erection free. Will cannot tear his eyes from it—especially when Hannibal drags his hand slowly up the shaft. Will finds it so erotic it is almost painful to observe. He aches to lean forward, to press his lips against the head and taste Hannibal, in the raw. He wants to experience the man’s quintessence, to bask in it.

“Do continue,” Hannibal says dryly. He bends over, uses his thumb to drag a particularly large bead of pre-cum from the head of Will’s cock. He is unable to restrain himself, hips buck at the modicum of contact.

“Because he felt like he didn’t deserve _ah—_ “ Hannibal shoves Will backwards, onto the carpeted floor. His head suffers the impact, but it is only vaguely painfully. “…Didn’t deserve… to have them…

Hannibal drops gracefully to his knees before Will, chooses this moment to twist his hand into a tight fist at the base of Will’s cock, pulling a groan of blatant pain and pleasure from his throat. Blood rushes in his ears, stars flash in his eyes, mixing horrifically with _gaudy naked legs and syringes and bared throats_.

Hannibal’s hands flip Will over onto his stomach, causing his arms to twist uncomfortably above his head. Will pulls himself up onto his knees and spreads his legs as far as he can comfortably, wincing when Hannibal stretches them even further. He feels Hannibal’s thumb press against his asshole, rubbing the cum around his rim, wetting the way for a single finger to slide in.

“…Like he wasn’t _worthy_ …”

Through his struggling to speak, Hannibal inserts a second finger, followed swiftly by a third. In and out, in and out, they circle and plunge and scrape against Will’s insides, turning him to mush.

“And he kills them to—to prove to himself that he isn’t worthy, to prove that he can resist the _uh—_ “ Hannibal suddenly removes his fingers, pressing the head of his cock there instead. As always, the three fingers are not enough and Will is completely unprepared for the stretch, the ache born from Hannibal’s cock inside him. “… _Urges._ ”

Hannibal leans forwards, the cool, plastic buttons on his shirt pressing into the skin of Will’s back. He opens his mouth for his warm tongue to dart out, licking against the shell of his ear, leaving a wet trail in its path.

Whispers, “And do you feel worthy, my dear William?”

**Author's Note:**

> luvkurai.tumblr.com
> 
> (A lot of this was originally written as the Hannibal/Will sex scene in 'Praise and Penance', but I took it out because all the religion stuff didn't fit the theme of the rest of the story. So I made it the first part of a two fic series. The second part will be in Hannibal's POV)


End file.
